


True Admiration

by dragonQuill907



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Molstrade, Secret Admirer, Teenlock, rugby!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 21:45:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2827157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonQuill907/pseuds/dragonQuill907
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes has been getting messages. The sender of these messages is a mystery, and normally, Sherlock loves mysteries. But he's not sure if this is a case he wants to solve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	True Admiration

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of these characters.

It was a piece of notebook paper, torn in half and folded into thirds, slipped from between the pages of his chemistry textbook. Sherlock read it, scoffed, threw it in the bin, picked it out, and read it again.

**I THINK YOU’RE EXTRAORDINARY**

Molly. It had to be Molly Hooper. But it couldn't be Molly Hooper. The handwriting was much too masculine, and besides, Sherlock knew what Molly's handwriting looked like. Spindly and neat, nothing like this blocky mess. Molly was dating Greg Lestrade now, anyway, a rugby player who had been pining over her for months. Only recently, when Sherlock had told her that his interests certainly did not lie with women, did she give Greg a chance.

Molly had always been happy to sit with him at lunch while the genius read and ignored the tray of food in front of him. But then she had brought Greg along, who in turn brought John Watson along. John Watson, who was the captain of the rugby team and had an alcoholic older brother – no, sister, there's always something – and was small but strong and had eyes like cobalt and blessedly, was in half of Sherlock’s classes.

Sherlock felt something not entirely unpleasant unfurl in his chest. John actually liked Sherlock, and he really was quite clever compared to the usual imbeciles that inhabited their school. He was always smiling, with his whole face, not just his mouth. And he was fit, too. Those years of rugby didn’t go unnoticed. John, who thought he was brilliant and listened to Sherlock explain all of his experiments. Sherlock shook his head. There was a time and place to dwell on his thoughts of John Watson, and it was not in the school library studying up on poisons and their effect on the human body.

No, now Sherlock had a new puzzle. Who would have the opportunity to slip him the note? His books were either in his locker or in his arms, and he told no one his combination. So the writer had to be smart. Where would he find an intelligent boy – because it  _ had _ to be, the writing was distinctly masculine – other than himself in this sea of idiots?

His thoughts once more turned to John. Sherlock pushed them out of his head. John Watson was straight, devastatingly so, and he had just broken up with his girlfriend Mary. John wouldn’t have written the note, and Sherlock didn’t want to get his hopes up. There was someone who maybe liked him, and he was pining over John Watson.

Who would have interest in Sherlock, anyway? He was brilliant, of course. His mind was incomparable. The rest of him, however, was a right mess. He had long arms and legs and big feet he was constantly trying not to trip over. His eyes were an icy gray-blue that he found utterly dull except for the rogue drop of brown above his right pupil. His hands, although quick and nimble, were rather large, and his hair was an unruly shock of dark brown that grew just long enough to curl around his ears. His smile – if he actually smiled – was marred by the braces he wore and the chip on his front tooth. Sherlock was deathly pale as well, having been compared to a vampire when he was younger.

Sherlock didn’t pretend that his looks were the only reason people avoided him. They found him too blunt, too rude to be around for long. It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault, really. He just didn’t like dealing with people, and, if he was honest with himself, he didn’t really know how. They were so boring, so predictable. He tried to help them, but they never appreciated it, just called him a wanker or, on some occasions, punched him in the face.

Perhaps the writer didn’t care about his looks. What if they actually liked Sherlock, snarky personality and all? If the boy was really here, attending the same school, Sherlock had to find him. If someone really, truly accepted Sherlock, well, that was a miracle on its own. If it wasn’t just a silly infatuation, if it was honest attraction, true admiration, then couldn’t it become something more?

Maybe it was a joke. Just a stupid a prank. Who was he kidding? Obviously it was a prank. Nobody had paid him any attention other than harass him, but that was mostly the rugby team, and even they had grown bored of tormenting him so frequently. Who'd think the freak was extraordinary? Extraordinarily rude or hateful, yes, but just extraordinary? 

It didn’t make sense. Almost everyone Sherlock knew had hated him the moment he opened his mouth, but that was just when he was trying to help. Shouldn't Jeanette know that her boyfriend was cheating on her - and with her best friend, no less - so she could leave him before she became too invested? Sherlock still didn't think he deserved that split lip, or the chipped tooth, for that matter.

Well, actually, Sherlock liked the chipped tooth. Mycroft had suggested they fix it, and Mummy and Father certainly had the means to do so, but Sherlock had been determined to keep it. Sometimes he didn't know why. But sometimes he knew exactly why.

Don't be smart, Sherlock. Don't upset the masses. The ordinary people.

“Hey, Freak,” Sally Donovan sneered, coming up behind him. “What do you have there?”

“Chemistry assignment, not that I’m actually going to waste my time on it. Been snogging Anderson again, have you? Really, Donovan, he isn't going to leave his girlfriend for you. Best to break it off now. Save yourself some trouble.”

“Like you’d know,” she scoffed, but turned and walked away.

_ Yes, _ Sherlock thought,  _ I would. _

He checked out his book, placed the slip of paper neatly between the current pages he was reading, and walked out of the library with his messenger bag slung over one shoulder. Sherlock headed to the cafeteria, trying in vain to get the note out of his head. Molly and Greg were already sitting at their usual table by the back window when Sherlock walked through the double doors. They were holding hands and eating off each other’s plates, and normally that made Sherlock sick, but today he couldn’t help but wonder if that’s something he and his writer would do. Could do. If it wasn’t just a cruel prank.

Which it probably was. But it was nice to hope, Sherlock reasoned, and he let himself be happy.

“Well, someone looks like a third wheel,” John laughed, plopping his tray of food next to Sherlock’s.

“It’s sickening,” Sherlock muttered, taking a bite out of his sandwich.

“Oh, are you eating today?”

“Obviously.” He rolled his eyes.

The couple seemed to be oblivious to the two boys sitting across from them. Molly gave Greg a chaste kiss on the cheek, but he chuckled and captured her lips with his. It started modest enough, a gentle press of lips on lips, but then Molly was giggling, and Greg was stroking her cheek, and Sherlock wanted to catapult a spoonful of peas and mashed potatoes at them.

“Oi, you two,” John said loudly, breaking them away from each other. “Some of us are trying to eat, here.”

Molly flushed red and she stammered a nervous apology, but Greg had a smug grin plastered on his face and offered no remorse. John started talking to Greg about rugby practice and the game sometime soon, and Sherlock took that as his cue to pull out his book and ignore them. The note slipped from between the pages, fluttering to the floor before Sherlock could catch it.

“What’s this?” John asked, holding it between his fingers.

“Bookmark,” Sherlock snapped, grabbing it from him. Their fingers brushed, and Sherlock had to stop himself from shivering. This stupid bloody  _ crush _ on John Watson was making his life rather difficult.

“Sure,” he said. 

“So, are you coming, Sherlock?” Molly asked. She took a dainty sip of her water and smiled. Molly always smiled. John always smiled, too. And Greg. How Sherlock came to surround himself with such happy people, really, was one thing he’d never figure out.

“Sherlock?”

“What? Oh, you were talking.”

John chuckled, and Sherlock’s mouth quirked. 

“Yeah, mate. You coming to the rugby match tomorrow?” Greg questioned. “You know, support your boys on the Baker Secondary team?”

“No. I have experiments that need doing.”

“Oh, come on, Sherlock. It’ll be fun.”

“If only my mind was as dull as yours, I’m sure it would be.”

“It’ll only be a couple of hours,” Molly added, unfazed. “If you get bored you can leave. Or, you know, talk to me.”

“Mm. I’ll think about it.”

“So, it’s a no, then,” Greg declared. “’S too bad. We were hoping you’d grace us with your presence.”

“You irritate me every day during lunch; I think I deserve a break.”

“Oh, shut up, you great bloody-”

Just then, the bell rang. Sherlock collected his things and headed off to his history class, leaving his friends to their panicking. He was surprised when Molly caught up to him, nearly tripping over her own feet in her haste to walk with him.

“You know, I don’t really get rugby. Well, I understand how to play, but I don’t understand why they’d want to. I just like seeing Greg run around in his rugby shorts.”

Sherlock almost balked.

“Molly Hooper,” he said, “you’re terrifyingly brilliant.”

“Thanks,” she replied, grinning. “I do try.”

 

It fell out of Sherlock’s chemistry notebook this time, onto his desk during homeroom a week later. He picked it up hastily, covering the words with his palm so no one else could see them. They were his words, meant for his eyes alone.

**I THINK OF YOU CONSTANTLY**

Sherlock’s heart fluttered, and a smile ghosted his lips. He clutched at the paper tightly, trying to make the words bleed into him. It was the same writer, and they were thinking about Sherlock.  _ Constantly _ . Sherlock shuddered at the possibilities the message could imply. Did the writer think about  _ being _ with Sherlock, just being close to each other? Or did their desires lay somewhere else?

Sherlock pressed his fingers to his lips, considering this. Would it really be so bad to have a romantic relationship with his writer? He’d never had one, of course, and was probably crap at them, but he could learn. Sherlock could definitely learn. Anything for his writer, who actually liked him and thought about him, presumably without a malignant thought attached to him. Yes, Sherlock could learn to be caring and considerate. 

His thoughts turned once more to who it could be. The writer was left-handed for sure, seeing as the left half of both letters were smudged with ink from where the hand swept past them. They had access to Sherlock’s chemistry notebook, too. Sherlock’s lab partner was Irene Adler, but her ‘attraction’ was just poorly disguised envy of Sherlock’s intelligence.

Sherlock got through his day by watching everyone’s hands. He dismissed them quickly if they were right-handed, but his gaze lingered on those who weren’t. A few girls and several boys in his grade caught his eye, but he soon determined and eliminated those who were unlikely candidates.

He tried not to dwell on the fact that John ate his soup with his spoon in his left hand. John Watson, Sherlock told himself, would never have any interest in someone like him.

Molly caught up to him again after the final bell rang, her brown hair falling out of its ponytail. 

“Hello, Molly.”

“What’s with you today?” she asked.

“What do you mean?” Sherlock questioned back. “I’ve been perfectly fine all day. I am fine.”

“Well, you were barely snippy at lunch, even when Greg and John started talking about that stupid movie they want us to see – which you  _ did _ agree to, by the way, although I doubt you actually realized it.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to back out of it – he didn’t think he could sit possibly next to John in a darkened movie theater without doing anything stupid – but Molly cut him off.

“You were smiling, like, the whole day. Not smiling exactly, but that weird little smirk you do when you find us mere mortals amusing. So,” she said, grinning, “what’s with you today? Is something going on?”

“Not anything particularly interesting.”

“Sherlock, I can practically  _ hear _ your smile right now. There must be something going on. You don’t have to tell me, just let me know if I can help.”

Sherlock nodded, and they continued to walk in silence, pushing open a set of doors to step into the fresh spring air. They took their normal route home, Molly living only a block away from Sherlock’s flat.

“Molly,” Sherlock said suddenly, surprising himself. “You’re in a relationship.”

“Oh my God, do you fancy someone?” she gasped. “Oh! Is it John? I’ve seen the way you look at him, you know, when you think he can’t see you.”

He paused, looking at the small girl next to him incredulously. 

“You really are terrifying. But no, that’s not what I was going to tell you.” He sighed. “I got a note last week. I don’t know who wrote it yet, but I’m sure they’re left-handed, so that’s a start, at least. Anyway, the writer said he thinks I am extraordinary.”

“He?”

“The handwriting is certainly masculine. I got another today. I was just preoccupied. Thinking.”

“You’ve a secret admirer?” Molly squealed. “And who did you say it was?”

“It wouldn’t be much of a secret if I knew.”

“Secret admirers aren’t meant to stay secret, Sherlock! He’ll tell you eventually. You don’t even have to look for him; he’ll come to you.”

 

He unzipped his pencil case and saw it tucked neatly inside. His heart started pounding, and he licked his lips nervously.

**YOUR SMILE MAKES MY STOMACH FLIP**

Sherlock wanted to find the writer, figure out who he was, and smile for him, just to make him feel that way again. This note was better, Sherlock thought. It was the best so far. It was proof that the writer had feelings for him, the same feeling Sherlock got whenever he saw the now-familiar handwriting.

He told Molly about it that afternoon after school let out. She was meeting Greg after rugby practice, but Sherlock came along anyway, to seek advice from someone experienced. The feeling was a new one.

“I am so happy for you, Sherlock,” she said, clutching her books to her chest.

“You’re always happy.”

“But I’m even happier now. Aren’t you?”

“What?” Sherlock asked, deadpan. “You can’t tell?”

“Oh, he’s quite the boy if he’s got you feeling this way, Sherlock Holmes.”

“No one besides you has ever expressed any interest in me.”

“And I’m a girl, so it didn’t count,” Molly agreed.

“Exactly.”

“Are you any closer to figuring out who it is?”

“No. But I don’t smile for nothing, not like you three. He had to have seen me smile, but that doesn’t necessarily help. He could’ve been observing me from afar.”

“Like a stalker.”

“Secret admirer, stalker, there’s really no difference,” Sherlock replied, settling on the ground, his back against a tree overlooking the rugby field. “One participant is in the dark about the other, usually there’s sentimental reasons for the other’s attachment, most often romantic, actually.”

“Except having a secret admirer isn’t that alarming.”

“Mm,” Sherlock agreed absentmindedly, pulling out a book to hide his gaze.

After a few minutes of doing her homework, Molly sighed and said, “You’re not fooling anybody; I know you’re watching John run around in his rugby shorts.”

“You’re watching Greg run around in his. My view is infinitely better. Besides, I don’t have to fool you, Molly, I have to fool  _ them _ .”

“What are you talking about?”

Sherlock schooled his features into relaxed nonchalance.

“Molly, they hate me already. Imagine if they knew I was gay. You know what they’ve done before. It’d double overnight.”

They didn’t just hate him from a distance, not like normal, civilized human beings. No, they couldn’t do that. They called him names and ruined his things. Freak. Weirdo. Insane. A group cornered him one day after school in the stairwell. The boys were mostly rugby lads – the ones he didn’t want seeing him now. They’d dumped the books out of his messenger bag and scattered his papers. He had walked home with a split lip and aching ribs.

It hadn’t been the first time, and it hadn’t been the last.

That was just because he was smarter than they were. If he was found to be even more different, even more of an outcast, there would be hell to pay. And Sherlock didn’t think he deserved to suffer for being himself.

“Sherlock,” Molly said after a long pause, “do you want to come to the pizza shop down the road with us after practice?”

“Yes, Molly, I’d love to tag along on your date with Greg and try to ignore the both of you as you snog right in front of me.”

“No, it’s not just me and Greg. John’s coming, too.”

“You’ll still snog right in front of us.”

“Maybe you two should snog then, to show me and Greg how annoying and disgusting it is.”

“Molly, don’t…”

“Sherlock.”

“Fine. I’ll come. I hope you’re happy with yourself.”

“You’ve told me yourself, Sherlock: I’m always happy.”

Sherlock felt himself smile.

Rugby practice ended not long after that. John and Greg trotted up to them, still in their red and black uniforms. Their faces were red, their hair plastered to their foreheads. John ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up in sandy blond peaks.

“Hey, Molls, Sherlock.”

“Hey, sweetheart,” Greg greeted, kissing Molly on the forehead. 

“Oh, you’ve got pet names now,” Sherlock muttered. “How nice.”

“Sickening, isn’t it?” John agreed, plopping down next to Sherlock.

“Mm.”

“How’ve you been?” Greg asked Molly.

“Good, same since lunch,” she giggled. “Go take a shower. You smell awful.”

“Already taking orders, eh, Greg?” John laughed. “Practically married, you two.”

“You too. You’ll stink up my homework, and Mrs. Hudson won’t even be able to grade it because the smell will incapacitate her too quickly,” Sherlock stated, waving his book in the air as if to prove a point. 

“Is that your attempt at a joke?”

“No, you smell rancid. Go take a shower.”

“Oi, who’s married now?” Greg laughed, clapping John on the shoulder. “Come on, Watson, I’ll race ya to the showers.”

John chuckled, and the two boys dashed off to the locker room, leaving Sherlock and Molly to pack up their things. 

Molly and Greg led the way to the restaurant, holding hands the whole time. That left Sherlock and John walking side-by-side behind them, making faces at their backs. The two soon grew bored of that, though, so Sherlock explained the experiment he was currently working on. It was simple enough, just observing the reaction of pure sodium in water with various chemicals and bacteria, but John was positively enthralled. Or, Sherlock hoped he was, and he wasn’t just boring him.

John and Sherlock talked between themselves over pizza, although Molly and Greg didn’t even kiss once.

 

Sherlock grinned, unfolding the piece of paper reverently. It had been in his history book, this time.

**I COULD LISTEN TO YOUR VOICE ALL DAY**

He traced the letters with his fingers and tucked it into his pocket, savoring the words in his mind. So he had talked to his writer before, or he had been close enough to hear Sherlock speak. Sherlock spent the rest of his day thinking, going through a list of everyone who’d heard him speak – which wasn’t the most effective way of finding out who his writer was, but he’d never admit to that.

Molly saw right through him, as usual.

“Did you get another note?” she asked at lunch, after watching him for a few minutes. “You look like you’re thinking, but you have that face again.”

“Hmm, what? Oh.  _ Oh.  _ Molly!”

“What, were they not supposed to know?” she squeaked, sounding genuinely nervous. “Oh, God, Sherlock, I’m so sorry. I told Greg the other day, I didn’t think…”

“It’s… fine, Molly,” Sherlock huffed, giving her a weak smile. “No harm done.”

“You told Greg what?” John asked, his fork halfway to his mouth. “Or am I not supposed to know?”

“Molly can explain,” Sherlock muttered, folding his hands together.

“Sherlock’s been getting these cute little notes from someone at school. They say the  _ sweetest _ things. We don’t know who the writer is. But we do know some things. Right, Sherlock?”

He nodded, still shifting through faces and names in his Mind Palace.

“It could be any girl in this place,” Greg said. “Good on you, mate. Let’s hope she’s fit.”

“Oh, you didn’t tell him…  _ that _ ?” Sherlock questioned, looking intently at Molly. 

“No, no, of course not. That’s not my business.”

“But the notes are.” Sherlock smirked so she would know he was joking.

“I only mentioned that you had a secret admirer. Nothing more.”

“Sorry,” John interrupted again, “what didn’t you tell us?”

“Nothing,” Molly yelped. “Nothing, we told you everything we know.”

“Molly, it’s okay.”

“Sherlock, if you don’t want to tell them-”

“They’ll find out sooner or later, anyway, so it doesn’t make a difference. I … you know why I couldn’t. Can’t. But they won’t… do that.” Molly nodded, so Sherlock swallowed, taking a shaking breath.  _ No reason to be nervous, _ Sherlock told himself,  _ these are your friends.  _

_ Friends. These are your friends. _

“Sherlock?”

“Mm. Yeah? Oh.”

“We lost you for a second there, mate,” John said around a mouthful of sloppy joe.

“Yes. Well. I probably should’ve told you sooner, but if the wrong people found out, my life would be even more hellish than it already is. I’m only going to say this once. Girlfriends aren’t really my area.”

“Explain,” Greg requested, chewing.

“I’m about as straight as my hair.” The table was silent, so Sherlock continued. “I only told Molly because I felt bad she was pining over me, and it was getting tedious. So.” He waited, but no one spoke up. Molly fidgeted in her chair. “Say  _ something _ ; don’t just sit there with that vacant look in your eyes.”

“It really is fine,” John blurted. “It’s all… fine.”

“I know it is. But your rugby mates probably wouldn’t feel the same, so. Don’t tell them.”

“Screw them,” John muttered. “They used to give me hell because Harry’s a lesbian.”

“Sorry, mate,” Greg apologized, flushing slightly. “So, the notes aren’t from a bird, then. A bloke? Or at least… we hope so?”

“The handwriting is clearly masculine. So yes, it would seem my writer is a ‘bloke,’ as you so elegantly put it. Better for me, though.”

“Sherlock says he’s left-handed, too,” Molly added, clearly relieved, “so that’s where he started looking, but there are too many people.”

“I’m not getting any closer to finding out who it is.”

John chuckled then, his shoulders shaking.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked, frowning. “Did I miss something?”

“You’re ‘as straight as your hair.’”

“It’s a scarily accurate analogy.”

His friends –  _ Sherlock’s friends _ – laughed, and he smiled.

 

Sherlock was walking through the empty hall long after school had been let out, flipping through his assignment book, when his eyes landed on a piece of paper with handwriting he knew as well as his own. He opened the note as he pushed through a pair of double doors, the crisp air making him shiver.

**YOU FASCINATE ME**

He really should’ve stopped walking, or at least looked where he was going. He ran face-first into Sebastian Wilkes, who shoved him roughly away, as if Sherlock were toxic. Sherlock landed on his bottom, his books tumbling to the ground beside him. Sebastian and the two boys flanking him sneered.

“Watch it, Holmes!” the slick-haired boy snarled.

“Seb, I didn’t-”

“Shut it, Freak. You think just because Watson’s got a boner for you, you can fuck with me?”

One of the other boys, a dark-skinned rugby player named Moran, grabbed Sherlock by his collar and jerked him to his feet. Not for the first time, Sherlock cursed his lack of body weight.

“I – he doesn’t – you, what?”

“Guess you’re not a genius all the time, huh, Sherls?” the third boy taunted. 

He grabbed Sherlock’s right arm, and Moran tightened his grip on his left. Seb smirked and swung, his fist hitting Sherlock’s jaw. He yelped and bit his tongue. The larger boy swung again, hitting him in the stomach. All the air was expelled from his lungs, and his knees buckled. The boys holding him up didn’t resist against his dead weight at all.

“Giving up so easily?” Victor Trevor laughed, digging his nails into Sherlock’s arm. “To be perfectly honest, I’m almost disappointed you aren’t fighting back.”

Sherlock was bent over and wheezing, his face bleeding, when he heard it. Footsteps. He yanked his arms from the boys’ grasps, but Moran fisted a hand in his hair and pulled until Sherlock’s throat was exposed.

“Come on, Sherls,” Victor coaxed. “Be a good boy.”

Seb brought his foot back, and Sherlock winced. It connected with his left knee, and he cried out. The boys dropped him abruptly as a voice called out, “What the  _ hell _ is going on here?”

It was John. Sherlock wanted to crawl in a hole and live there for the rest of his life. John had seen him humiliated and bloodied, swaying on his knees.

“The freak started it,” Moran muttered.

“Watson! We're just having a chat with your girlfriend,” Seb said happily, as if he hadn't just beat Sherlock bloody. “He just looks so pretty while he's bleeding, eh?”

Seb's head snapped back, and John shook out his hand, blood on his knuckles. Seb growled and reached out to grab John, but he pushed Seb into the wall and kicked one of his legs out from under him.

“I think you look better. It's much more satisfying, for me, at least,” John snarled. “Now, if you know what's best for yourself, you'll take your friends, and you'll run along. Now, before I change my mind about letting you go. Don't think I won't deal with you at practice.”

Seb bolted to his feet and nodded to his lackeys, who moved from Sherlock's sides and followed him away from the school. Sherlock had managed to clamber to his feet and lean against the wall. John came over and grabbed his arm, checking him for injuries.

“I'm fine,” Sherlock snapped, shoving John away from him. “It's hardly the first time it's happened.”

“They've done this before?”

“Yes, John, everyone knows. I can't believe you didn't notice, unless you're even greater an idiot than I had previously thought.” 

“Don’t give me that, Sherlock. Not after I just saved-”

“ _ Saved _ me? You  _ saved me _ ? Is that what that was?” Sherlock snarled. “Is that what you are, now? John Watson, my knight in  _ shining armor _ .”

“That is not at all what I meant, Sherlock, and you know it perfectly well.”

“Perhaps I don’t. Is it pity? Do you pity  _ me _ , poor little Sherlock, all alone and cast out by society?” he seethed, his anger at everything unjust in his life pouring out in a great flood of words he would regret later. “I can’t fight my own battles, no. I need  _ John bloody Watson _ to come rescue me.”

“That wasn’t a fight, Sherlock. That was a  _ beating _ .” 

“That was  _ humiliating _ .”

“What did you want me to do, just walk by and let it happen? Let them hurt you?” John had raised his voice; he was yelling now, and his face was red. 

“Everyone else does!” Sherlock yelled back.

“I am not ‘everyone else!’”

“Then what are you?”

“I’m your friend, Sherlock!”

“I don’t have  _ friends _ !”

Sherlock froze. There it was. John would hate him now, want nothing more to do with him. It had only been a matter of time, Sherlock thought, feeling his stomach drop to his feet. John’s cobalt eyes were wide, and he shook his head.

“Can you walk?”

“What? Yes.”

“Come on, let’s go. I’ll drive you home.”

“I live a few miles from here,” Sherlock replied, stunned.

“Good. Let’s go, then.” John rested his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, and he shivered. His mind went into overdrive, frantically praying John didn’t notice.

“I – okay?”

John steered him away from the school. Sherlock’s knee ached and he wobbled without the support of the building.

“John, I-” Sherlock stumbled, leaning heavily on John’s left shoulder. John winced, letting out a breath through clenched teeth.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to- did I…”

“It’s all right, Sherlock. You’re just on my bad shoulder. Pulled a muscle last week during that rugby match you didn’t bother going to. Come round the other side.” Sherlock did, and John smiled. “Better. So, how's it going with that note fellow?” John asked, draping Sherlock's arm over his shoulders and gripping his waist. “Have you found anything?”

“Nothing yet,” Sherlock said slowly. “He's left-handed, and he seems to like me, though I can't help but doubt that.”

“And why's that?” 

“No one...  _ likes _ me, John. I don't- what if it's just an infatuation? Once he has me, he won't want me anymore. I'll be tossed aside like... like last week's garbage. The game will be over.”

“O-kay.”

“I apologize if I am making you uncomfortable. It's usually with Molly I talk about these things.”

“It’s all fine. I'm fine. Everything is fine.”

“Oh. All right. It doesn't bother you, then? That I'm...” Sherlock made a gesture with his free hand.

“What, gay? No. My sister's a lesbian.”

“That wasn't what I asked you.” 

They reached John’s car, a gray vehicle, obviously second-hand. John opened the passenger side door and carefully lowered Sherlock onto the seat. Sherlock instantly missed the steady warmth of John under him. The blond boy slammed his door shut and stuck the keys in the ignition.

“No. It doesn't matter to me,” he said, starting the car. “Or Greg, if you were wondering. I assume Molly's already told you she doesn't care either.”

“Why does Greg not care?”

“Because it doesn't matter to him. It doesn't change anything.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, for one, he didn't jump up from the lunch table and scream 'heathen!' at the top of his lungs when you told us all,” John laughed. “And he broke up with his last girlfriend because she was a homophobe.”

“Why?”

“Who wants to be around someone who thinks they have the right to tell someone else who to love?”

“Oh.”

They drove in near silence, Sherlock pointing out which turns to make and roads to avoid.

“I think you're wrong, Sherlock.”

“I'm never wrong,” Sherlock replied, shaking his head.

“You are now.”

“How?” He asked. “Forgive me if I don't believe you.”

“For starters, Molly, Greg, and I are your friends.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “I shouldn’t have implied otherwise.”

“I also think your note fellow does have an actual interest in you. Why else would he go through the trouble of pulling one over on the smartest seventeen-year-old in London?”

“Sixteen. I was moved up a year,” Sherlock corrected. “If the author of the notes had legitimate feelings for me, he would come forth and tell me, would he not?”

“Okay, I get your point there. Maybe he's afraid you'll find him boring.”

“Anyone who likes me at all could never be boring.”

“You think everyone's boring.”

“Molly and Greg are interesting enough. You, though, I don't know about you.”

“Very funny, genius,” the blond boy laughed. “Bloody smart, too, insulting me whilst I drive you home. Watch it, or I'll leave you here by the side of the road like a beggar.”

“No, you wouldn't do that to me, not after you just saved me from Seb and his moron groupies.”

“Okay, I admit that was a poor choice of words.”

“The first step to fixing a problem is recognizing you have one.”

“Don't test me, Holmes.”

“Or you'll what?” Sherlock laughed.

“All right, all right,” John relented. “Listen, I couldn't help but overhear, and... I have to ask, Sherlock. Did Victor Trevor call you ‘Sherls?’” 

“Yes,” Sherlock sighed. John nudged him, so he continued, “In primary school, Victor and I used to be friends. He was the only one who really tolerated me. When I was ten years old, Sebastian Wilkes transferred into our class. Vic took to him immediately. He was a much better friend than I was, and Vic told me so himself many times. They were as thick as thieves, and I eventually... faded away.”

“Yeah, just enforcing that they’re right wankers. That doesn't explain why they hate you.”

“Sebastian Moran enveloped them both with his 'charm.' Moran hated me by that point; I had correctly deduced that his mother was having an unhappy affair with her sister's husband, who had a severe drinking problem and later died of alcohol poisoning.”

“Shit.”

“It'll get worse. For you, too, not just for me.”

“How do you figure?”

“You punched Seb Wilkes in the face and then pushed him into a brick wall. They referenced us being together twice-”

“Twice? I only heard once, when he... called you my girlfriend.”

“Oh, it's quite funny, actually, what he said. Something about how I can’t fuck with them just because you’ve got a… boner for me. I think it was that.”

“Shit. Shit!” John exclaimed. “Shit. I've made it worse, haven't I? Running to help you like that... They'll have a hard time believing otherwise, huh?”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “John, what if-”

"What if what?" John prodded. "You can tell me, you know. Thought we already covered that bit."

"If the author reveals himself, John... I don't- I don't know what he wants," Sherlock admitted, wincing. "I don't know what I can give him."

"What, you think he's doing all this for sex, or something?" John asked, furrowing his brow. "Because I really don't think that's the case. It's too much work for just a one-off."

"No, John, of course not. I suspect he wants a relationship, which I don't think I am capable of having. It'll be dangerous, too. Being with me. Seb and Vic... Moran. They hate me. You saw what they did to me. What'll they do to someone who chooses to be seen with me?"

"They haven't done anything to us," John pointed out. “Molly, Greg, me.”

"That's different."

"O-kay."

"My point is, John," Sherlock said, pointing to take a left turn, "that I can't have a public relationship with him even if he wants to. The repercussions would not be worth my company.”

“Maybe he feels differently.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Really?” John asked.

“Yes. Turn here, and my flat is in the third building on the right.”

“You have a flat?”

“It’s my brother’s, really,” Sherlock answered. “My parents live out in Sussex, so. He’s off at university anyway. He’s not home much, thank God. He’s smarter than I am – which is understandable as he is five years my senior – but he has to make sure everyone knows it.”

“Sounds like a dick.”

“The biggest.” Sherlock smirked, hobbling out of the car.

“You need help there?” John asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No, I’ll manage.”

“Are you sure?”

“John.”

“Yeah, fine. I’ll see you tomorrow, Sherlock.”

“Goodbye, John.”

 

The note had been stuck neatly into the front pocket of his messenger bag, and Sherlock found it only an hour after John had left.

**I THINK YOU’RE GORGEOUS**

 

All the happy anticipation that had built up in Sherlock’s chest shattered. Well, that was that, then. It was just a sick prank. It had to be. Sherlock was definitely not good-looking. Hell, he wasn’t even proportionate. His legs were too long and his feet too big. His hair was a ridiculous mess of curls fit for a clown. Sherlock liked his chipped tooth, but he doubted anyone else did.

Sherlock sighed and finished his homework. He went straight to bed after that, not bothering to eat. Sleep did not come to him, so he lay staring at the ceiling, blankets tucked and bunched around him like a nest. He wriggled deeper into the covers and didn’t get up the next day.

The day after that, his mother called him and let him know that under no circumstances was he to stay home from school another day just to have a sulk, and that he could be as antisocial he wanted to be at school as well as at the flat.

So Sherlock got dressed, stuffed his books in his messenger bag, and started his walk to school. He noticed he had a small limp, which was probably not helped by the fact that he spent the last thirty-six hours lying in bed. Sherlock went about his day basically indifferent to all that went on around him. He glared at Donovan and Anderson instead of snapping at them. He nodded instead of saying hello to Molly or Greg when he sat down in front of them. He barely looked up when John seated himself on the chair next to Sherlock.

"Something wrong, Sherlock?" Greg asked, food still in his mouth.

"Don't mind him," Molly answered. "He's just having a bit of a sulk."

"Well, that doesn't answer why he's acting like a toddler," John replied.

Sherlock huffed and put his head on the table.

"Oi, your curls are going to get in my gravy," John warned, nudging Sherlock's shoulder. "Move it."

Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"That's the most response he's given all day. Good on you, John."

The genius acted this way for nearly three days, until Greg grew tired of waiting for answers that never came.

“What is wrong with you, Sherlock?” he asked. “Are you all right? You’ve not been replying to anything we’ve said almost all week.”

Sherlock's mind was overflowing with negativity. Every name he'd ever been called floated round his head, and none of them were 'gorgeous' or anything close to it. Beautiful, handsome, stunning, alluring, attractive, none of them were accounted for. Insane, weirdo, nutter, wanker, crazy, freak, freak, freak.

Those were much more common.

"All right, Sherlock," John prodded. “Greg’s got a point. You're going to tell us what's got you in such a state."

"Or what?"

"He talks!" Greg exclaimed.

"Normally you beg me to stop talking. Why is it different now?"

"Because something's bothering you," John said. 

Molly nodded in agreement. "Is it to do with your note fellow?"

"Not all of my problems are caused by the writer."

"Yeah," Molly agreed, "but this one is."

"He said I'm gorgeous," Sherlock blurted, not thinking.

"Are you telling me that’s a bad thing?” Greg questioned. “Seriously?”

“ _ That’s _ what’s wrong?” John asked dubiously. “ _ That’s _ why you’re acting like a six-year-old who didn’t get any ice cream after dinner?”

"Yes!” Sherlock exclaimed. “Really, you’re all so clueless. How do you function?”

“We get it, Sherlock,” Greg replied, taking a swig of his drink. “You’re a genius. We’re morons. So explain it to us.”

“I am nowhere near good-looking. Unless the author is just  _ extremely mistaken _ , this is all a joke. A prank. Should've seen it sooner, really. I'm a bit disappointed in myself."

The table was silent. Sherlock shrugged and put his head back in his hands.

"Sherlock, of course you're handsome," Molly stuttered. "Maybe not in the conventional way, but you have very nice... eyes."

"Yeah, mate," Greg added, "don't get yourself down." 

"I am only telling you facts. I have no use for these lies meant to conserve my feelings."

"Christ, Sherlock, everyone has self-esteem issues," John said. "Just because you don't see it, doesn't mean someone else can't."

“Maybe he’s blind.”

“Greg,” Molly scolded, but Sherlock smirked.

 

It was only two days after that that Sherlock got the most recent note.

**DID YOU HONESTLY NOT KNOW HOW BEAUTIFUL YOU ARE?**

It just irritated Sherlock, but he stuffed it into his pocket anyway. Molly would probably want to know about it on their way home.

He told himself that was the only reason he kept it.

“John!” Greg exclaimed when the blond joined them at their table. “I think you’ve been single long enough.”

“Uh, it’s only been a month and a half. Not even.”

“Exactly,” Greg replied. “I think you should ask out Sarah.”

John wrinkled his nose. “Sawyer?”

Sherlock’s stomach turned. He knew Sarah Sawyer. She was the ordinary kind of pretty, with shoulder-length honey brown hair and blue eyes. She was clever enough to be in a few of Sherlock’s classes, but just enough. Sherlock found her incessant babbling annoying and tried to avoid her when possible.

“Yes, Sawyer! Sarah Sawyer. She was staring at you all through chemistry,” Greg said. “She didn’t pay any attention to our assignment, so I had to do all of it. Now, you need to ask her out so she gets you out of her system. I don’t care how well the date goes. Just get it over with so she can get back to doing her share of work.”

“You want me to go on a date so you don’t have to do your chemistry homework?”

“No, of course not. Do you think I’m some kind of animal? It’s just the  _ classwork _ that needs doing, John. And she’s pretty sweet. She’s no Molly, but she’ll be nice for you, I think.”

“No.”

“Oh, come on, John! Why the hell not?”

John rolled his eyes. “Because I’m not your whore, Greg.”

Sherlock smirked, listening along and watching Molly’s face go from shocked to flattered and back to shocked again. Greg stammered a response, but John kept talking.

“And also because I left Mary only, like, six weeks ago at most, and I don’t really feel like dating another girl yet.”

“I thought Mary left you,” Molly said.

“That’s probably what she’s telling everybody, but, no, I left her. Doesn’t make a difference, really, but. You know.”

“She’s telling all the girls you’re a terrible kisser.”

“Are you kidding?” Greg laughed. “Three-Continents Watson here?”

“Three-Continents Watson?” Sherlock questioned. “What does that even mean?”

“Just a nickname that I asked Greg to  _ stop calling me _ ,” John explained. “Christ.” 

“Johnny here’s had more girlfriends than I can count,” Greg laughed.

“Only four,” he muttered. “More boyfriends, though.”

Everyone fell silent. John’s eyes went wide, as if he just realized what he had said. He stared down at his plate, pursing his lips. Molly coughed and nudged Greg under the table.

“What’d you say there, mate?” he asked, his fork still halfway to his mouth.

“Uh, yeah, um. Shit. Yeah. So. I’m, uh… Crap.”

“You don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to,” Molly added unhelpfully.

“Well, all three of you heard me. And anyway, if Sherlock can do it, why can’t I?”

“Shit, John, are you gay?” Greg asked.

“I’m bi, actually,” he replied, rolling his eyes. “Don’t sound so scandalized about it. I thought it was pretty obvious. I’m fairly surprised this one didn’t figure it out.” He pointed at Sherlock with his straw.

“Yes, I should’ve realized,” Sherlock agreed. “I’m slipping.”

John barked out a laugh. Molly smiled. Greg still looked confused but grinned stupidly anyway.

 

Sherlock’s heart nearly jumped out of his chest when saw the note tucked into his chemistry book once again. He nearly had an aneurism when he read it.

**I THINK I’M IN LOVE WITH YOU**

He had spent years of believing he was inhuman, unlovable. Now someone he knew thought they loved him –  _ loved him _ . Sherlock closed his eyes and ran to his Mind Palace. He ripped the place apart looking for clues he’d missed. He passed Greg and Molly’s shelves (Molly had two) and skipped John’s room entirely. He didn’t have time to dwell on his stupid crush on John Watson, who was devastatingly…

Bisexual.

He backed up and ran his fingertips over the oak door. He shook his head and kept going, rifling through cabinets, throwing open cupboards, emptying drawers and wardrobes. His writer was left-handed. He was attracted to males. He had been close enough to hear Sherlock speaking more than once before. He found Sherlock extraordinary, fascinating. He wasn’t afraid to be with the freak. Someone fit all these criteria – and _wasn’t_ _imaginary_. Sherlock had to figure out who was sending him notes before they lost all interest in him.

Sherlock cleaned up the mess he made in his Mind Palace and opened his eyes. It had only taken him two and a half minutes to search the whole of it, and he had come up with nothing. He decided to talk to Molly, who had quickly become essential to the investigation, on the trip back to his flat. Perhaps she would have an idea to spark another of Sherlock’s.

“Molly, there’s news. My writer. He says he might love me.”

Molly actually squealed.

“Sherlock!” she exclaimed, hopping a little. “That’s  _ it _ . We have to find him now. We’re done waiting. I’ll help you. I’ll even get Greg and John to help you. We’ll find him much more easily if all three of us look. Right?”

“I suppose,” Sherlock agreed.

“Are you excited?”

“I suppose I am.”

“Who do you suppose it could be?”

“Molly, if I had any inkling of who it was, do you think I wouldn’t do something about it?” Sherlock asked, rolling his eyes. 

“What about John?” Molly asked.

“What about him?”

“Nothing,” she replied quickly.

Sherlock glanced at her but kept walking, his mind racing with possibilities.

“Mousy Hooper!” a voice called, a voice Sherlock knew too well.

“Molly?”

“It’s nothing,” she said.

“So Sebastian Moran just screamed ‘Mousy Hooper’ because it’s nothing.”

“I broke up with his cousin last year. Do you know Jim?”

“ _ Mousy _ Hooper,” Moran sang, running up behind them.

“Don’t call her that,” Sherlock snapped. “That’s not her name.”

“Oh, you break up with Watson, then, Holmes? Got a new girlfriend?”

“Leave her alone,” Sherlock demanded. “This isn’t about her, is it? You like to terrorize me, so terrorize me.”

“I’m with Greg,” Molly mumbled.

“Ohhh, really?” Moran laughed. “Naughty, naughty, Mousy. I didn’t know you were such a bad girl.” He stroked her cheek with his knuckle, and she yelped.

Sherlock grabbed his wrist and twisted, knocking him off balance. He swung his fist and felt it connect with hard bone. It cracked under Sherlock’s hand, and blood coated his fingers. Moran wrenched away from him, clutching his face, blood pouring from his hands.

“What the hell, Holmes?”

“Don’t touch her,” Sherlock growled. “If you ever touch her again, it’ll be ten times worse; I swear on my life. Now run along.”

Moran turned and walked away, holding his head back to stop the blood flow. Sherlock shook out his hand, examining a knuckle that had split.

“Sherlock,” Molly said softly, “you didn’t have to do that.”

“Of course I didn’t. When do I ever do things I have to? I know you can take care of yourself, Molly, but he shouldn’t have taunted you.”

“It’s not about standing up for me, Sherlock. You didn’t have to hit him.”

“And he doesn’t have to hit me. Besides,” Sherlock replied, grinning, “I really wanted to.”

“Boys,” Molly muttered.

“Boys,” Sherlock agreed.

 

Sherlock sat by his and Molly’s rugby tree, packing his books into his bag. Molly had invited Greg over to her house after rugby practice, so he was joining them on their trip home. Sherlock stood when he saw John emerge from the locker room, a bundle of clothes under his arm. 

"Sherlock," John called, trotting up to the three of them. He glanced at Molly and Greg nervously. "I was kind of hoping to talk to you."

"Greg and I just will walk ahead," Molly said, slipping her hand into his. Greg grinned down at her and kissed her forehead. Sherlock wrinkled his nose and turned to John, who stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"John," Sherlock said, "what's wrong?"

"Nothing's  _ wrong _ , Sherlock. I just wanted to talk to you."

“Oh. Okay, then.” He waited.

“How’d you do on that English test?” John asked. “I only got a B. Got that one about Hamlet and Ophelia wrong.”

“A,” Sherlock replied. “But that’s not what you wanted to talk about. It’s probably about what’s in your pockets. Am I wrong?”

"My- how d'you figure?" John asked, smiling.

Sherlock glanced pointedly at John's hands, which were clenched into fists in his front pockets. John blushed, the tips of his ears turning red.

"Right," he laughed. "You’re right. So, um, hold out your hand, then."

Sherlock did, and John dropped a piece of paper into his outstretched palm. It was torn in half and folded into thirds. He looked up at John, who was licking his lips nervously. Sherlock could hear his heart pounding in his ears. His hands shook as he unfolded the paper and saw the familiar handwriting. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. His stomach turned. 

“Thought it’d be best to do this one in person.”

**YEAH, DEFINITELY IN LOVE WITH YOU**

"John."

"Yep."

"You're... you wrote the notes."

"Yeah, I did."

"John Watson wrote me love notes."

"Are you... all right? With, you know,  _ me _ ?"

"Why, though? You could have anyone in this school and you choose  _ me _ . I am  _ literally _ the worst person you could choose, John. You know that, right?" 

“Didn’t you get my notes?”

“Funny.”

“Sherlock, I don’t know why. I can’t explain it. But I can explain  _ how  _ I love you, and that’s what those notes were for,” John said, drawing his eyes up to meet Sherlock’s gaze. “But I can tell you in person now. Right?”

“John, I…” Sherlock whispered, his voice weak. “I can say it, John, but it won’t mean anything.”

“Then don’t say it,” John answered, looking away. His Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. “I didn’t expect to hear it back, anyway.”

“John, I  _ have _ felt… romantic attachments to you for some time now. I feared they were horrendously obvious, since Molly figured it out, but it seems you actually failed to notice.”

“Yeah, seems that way,” John said slowly. “I’m pretty shocked you didn’t realize it yourself.”

“Moran. Yes, I should’ve suspected something after that. So Moran knew, but I didn’t?” Sherlock hissed. “Unbelievable.”

“To be fair, I didn’t exactly hide it very well when you weren’t around.”

Sherlock smirked as John chuckled to himself.

“So, how did you get the notes in my books? I mean, I know you’re clever. Just not cleverer than me.”

“Well, you usually go to your Mind Castle place during history class, so it’s pretty easy to slip a piece of paper in your books when you aren’t looking. I do sit right next to you.”

“Palace.”

“What?”

“Mind Palace.”

“Yeah, okay, sorry.”

“And… you actually think all those things about me?” Sherlock questioned, his cheeks turning pink.

“Well… what would I have to gain by lying to you?”

“I’m not good-looking, though.”

“Sherlock, I don’t care about how you look. I lo-. I like every part of you. Your looks, your personality,” – John smiled at Sherlock’s bewildered expression – “and especially your brain. And Molly was right, you know; you do have  _ really _ nice eyes.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything. He leaned over and gently pressed his lips to John’s. It was over in a second, and Sherlock wondered if he did it wrong, but John smiled widely anyway.

“Can I give you a ride home?”

Sherlock nodded, smiling softly. They drove in comfortable silence, Sherlock speaking only to point out the correct streets to take. John pulled over when he saw Molly and Greg.

“You two need a ride?” he called.

“It’s only ten minutes away,” Molly protested even as Greg clambered into the backseat.

“That means it’s only two minutes if we drive. Get in the car, Molly.”

“Hey, Sherlock.”

“Greg, so nice to see you.”

“All right, genius, don’t be a prick.”

“Shut up, both of you,” John said, pulling away from the curb. “Where are you two headed? Molly’s place, yeah?”

“Right,” Molly affirmed. “You two should come, too.”

“And interrupt your date?” Sherlock scoffed. “I’d rather not.”

“Come on, Sherlock, we’re just going to watch a movie.”

“That we’ve already seen,” Greg complained.

“We saw the first twenty minutes.”

“Well, there’s a tidbit I didn’t need to know,” John said. “I think I’ll pass, thanks. Sherlock?”

“No, take me home.”

“You two are no fun,” Molly pouted.

“Molls, I really don’t want to listen to a movie over the sound of you and Greg snogging not three feet away from me.”

“You can turn the volume up,” Greg pointed out. 

“Greg, no,” Molly scolded. “We’re going to finish the movie this time.”

“But, Molls, it’s so boring. You’re not boring.”

“Oi, you two, you’re not having this conversation in the back of my car.”

“Sorry, mate.”

“Take this left turn here,” Sherlock said. “Molly’s house is three blocks farther. Then we can swing round to mine.”

“This one here,” Molly said, pointing to a cream-colored two-story house. “Thanks for the ride, John.”

“No problem, Molls. Anytime.”

“Bye, Watson. Sherlock. See you both tomorrow. I gotta go watch that movie.” Greg winked.

“Gregory Lestrade!” Molly called, her arms crossed.

Greg launched himself out of the car and up to Molly’s door. Both disappeared inside after Molly waved one last time. John turned down Sherlock’s block and parked in front of his flat.

“I’d invite you in, but Mycroft’s on holiday, and I wouldn’t want to expose you to my arsehole brother.”

“That’s fine, Sherlock,” John laughed. “Hell, I’ve got to deal with Harry.”

“Goodbye, John.” Sherlock smiled, stepping out of the car.

“Right. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Mm.”

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?”

The blond grinned. “Are you free tomorrow night?”

Sherlock smiled and nodded, turning and heading into his flat with what felt like the weight of the world lifted off his shoulders.

 


End file.
